a little, old bowl

updated tue 4 mar 03

Dave Finkelnburg on sun 2 mar 03

Dear Alisa,
Please accept my sincere condolences on the loss of your father. It is
not easy....
Thanks for sharing the bowl story. It's a nice story...and well
written! Nice work!
Dave Finkelnburg on a sunny breezy day in Idaho

Dear Clayart,
I welcome the list back to my daily life. I visited my parents and it
stretched out to a fairly long stay. It is the house we kids all
grew up in, so there are many things left behind, but not lost. One of the
days there, I saw a bowl filled with sugar.
It was one of the very first bowls I ever threw that made it into and
through a firing. Small, terracotta, etched bowl with slightly flared lip.
My named is erectly scratched into the bottom, my entire name, all of them
at that time, the year and the season, summer.
Neat little foot. I thought about that bowl. Thrown 30 years ago and I can
remember most of the circumstances of that summer, the school studio, the
adult who unlocked the door. There were no other students. I used the
ceramic studio of my school all summer long, learning how to throw by not
much more than kicking that wheel every day.

That summer I was just beginning to become independent of my parents, to
dare go outside the parameters of their wishes. The bowl looks like what I
looked like then. Slender wall, opening wider and wider as it came up, one
single color but lots and lots of scratches and marks. Underdeveloped but
developing, a small base but flowering rim. I was 15.

Picking up the bowl, I could feel the young adult I was then, exited and
rebellious, trying out life for the first times, with a young identity
separate from being my parent's child. Now, with these years stretched out
between holding that bowl warm from the kiln and returning it again to my
mother's table, I feel how adult I became over this month. Mourning the
loss of my father, realizing how much I am his child, not so dramatically
different or independent. Same like this bowl. Not a bad bowl and not too
different from the ones I am throwing today.

I am home now. I am glad that I can stand up and do what I need to do. Two
shows back to back now and lots to
try out on the glaze slab. Life and it's continuities, soothing and
sorrowful, but strengthening.

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claybair on sun 2 mar 03

Alisa

Thank you for the touching and wonderful accounting of life's moments.
Just yesterday I had one of those flashbacks...for a moment I relived all
the emotions,
sensations and youthful ponderings. It was amazing to perceive it while
being aware of who I am now at the same time.
My condolences on your dad's passing. I can empathize with you. My dad died
3 years ago. I hope your mom stays surrounded by family. That is what kept
my mom from going under.

I'm glad you are back on Clayart.

Best wishes for you 2 shows.

Gayle Bair
Bainbridge Island, WA
http://claybair.com

Alisa Liskin Clausen on sun 2 mar 03

Dear Clayart,
I welcome the list back to my daily life. I visited my parents and it =
stretched out to a fairly long stay. It is the house we kids all=20
grew up in, so there are many things left behind, but not lost. One of =
the days there, I saw a bowl filled with sugar.
It was one of the very first bowls I ever threw that made it into and =
through a firing. Small, terracotta, etched bowl with slightly flared =
lip. My named is erectly scratched into the bottom, my entire name, all =
of them at that time, the year and the season, summer.=20
Neat little foot. I thought about that bowl. Thrown 30 years ago and I =
can remember most of the circumstances of that summer, the school =
studio, the adult who unlocked the door. There were no other students. =
I used the ceramic studio of my school all summer long, learning how to =
throw by not much more than kicking that wheel every day. =20

That summer I was just beginning to become independent of my parents, to =
dare go outside the parameters of their wishes. The bowl looks like what =
I looked like then. Slender wall, opening wider and wider as it came =
up, one single color but lots and lots of scratches and marks. =
Underdeveloped but developing, a small base but flowering rim. I was =
15.

Picking up the bowl, I could feel the young adult I was then, exited and =
rebellious, trying out life for the first times, with a young identity =
separate from being my parent's child. Now, with these years stretched =
out between holding that bowl warm from the kiln and returning it again =
to my mother's table, I feel how adult I became over this month. =
Mourning the loss of my father, realizing how much I am his child, not =
so dramatically different or independent. Same like this bowl. Not a =
bad bowl and not too different from the ones I am throwing today.

I am home now. I am glad that I can stand up and do what I need to do. =
Two shows back to back now and lots to
try out on the glaze slab. Life and it's continuities, soothing and =
sorrowful, but strengthening.=20